And when the day broke, it was not tranquil, and no sun to see; and the wind shrieking and yelling out of the southeast like some wild thing, with gusts of drenching rain. I thought of my late corn, which was heavy with great ears—and had been tall, too, the night before. It was like to be blown flat in that wind—as flat as if it had been harvested—and what was a clambake without fresh corn? But there was no help for it. I ate my breakfast at my leisure,—there would be more wind before there was less,—put on oilskins, boots, and sou’wester, and fared forth.
As I passed down through my garden I glanced at my corn. It was flat, as I expected, save one great stalk, stronger than its comrades, or more deeply rooted, and that stalk waved and thrashed about in anguish. It would break soon, I knew. And I mused as I leaned against the wind upon its fate—how it must be broken and die, while the stalks less well rooted did but go down before the blast, and live and grow. But I gave my corn no more thought, for I was come to the steep path that led me down along the shore, and by the water, now all brown with sand and mud that had been stirred from the bottom. For, although it was fairly quiet here, being in the lee of the bluff, the water was well stirred, as any might guess from looking out upon it. And I came to the bank, where the sod breaks off to the sand, and no Eve was there. And, indeed, I had known better, but can a man help hoping? It was much too early, and who could expect her to come down in that wind? And as I made these excuses for her, behold, she stepped from behind a great tree, and she laughed aloud to see my face.
“Oh, Adam!” she cried, “one would think, to see you as you came, that you had lost your last friend, and were just come to the funeral.”
“And then,” I answered, smiling up at her,—“what then, Eve?”
“Why, then,—you seemed surprised and”— With that she stopped, and she stood upon the bank above, and I on the sand below; and she put her hands upon my shoulders, one on each, and looked down into my face. And I looked up into her eyes, and I forgot the storm, and I forgot that wild wind that blew, and I forgot all things save what I saw there. And, an instant, she bent to me. “Oh, Adam, Adam!” she cried, “I am glad, glad that you care so much. For it is not easy for me.”
And I said no word, but only held her so for some while. And presently she laughed, as if she were half ashamed, and drew her from my arms. And I saw that her face was wet. It may have been the rain—I do not know. A fisherman, in sou’wester and oilskins, holding in his arms a Daughter of the Rich. I laughed aloud at the thought. For, though she, too, had on boots, she seemed no fit mate for such as I—in her long coat, that covered her from neck to heel, and with her wide felt hat, tied down behind. Indeed, I grudged that to necessity—for her hair was all hid, under the hat.
Out from my clam beds—some way out—is a reef of rocks. It is grim enough in any weather: at low water just showing its rough head, dark brown, barnacled, bearded with seaweed; at high tide, in calm weather, nothing but a wide expanse of placid water. For which reason, the government, in its wisdom, and to protect the lives of yachtsmen, who ever walk in darkness—the fishermen know it from the beginning of time—the government had set, upon the most outward rock a spindle. It was awkward enough, that spindle, with its sprawling arms, like a telegraph pole—but it served its purpose well in ordinary weather I have no doubt. But now,—this was no ordinary weather, as any might see,—it seemed like to go down, even as my solitary stalk of corn; to be torn from its hold in the rock, or the shaft twisted and bent and broken, till it served no longer.
“Look, Eve,” I shouted. For the gale tore my words out of my mouth. “The spindle—it will go down at high tide—or before. See, it is bent, already.”
For, as I spoke, a great sea smashed down upon the rock, sending its spray high; and when the wind had blown the bits of broken water far to leeward, leaving the rock in a smother of foam, I saw the spindle, and it stood straight no longer. And I watched for the fellow of the sea that had come. But Eve held her peace. And we two watched the rock, with its leaning spindle, and ever it leaned the more, but it kept fast hold on the rock, though it was nearly buried in the foam. And ever the tide came higher, until it was buried in every sea that came. So it was come to dinner time; and I felt a great hunger that gnawed within me. For a clammer must eat, even as other men.
“Eve,” I said, “it is my dinner time, and I am hungry.”